


Patron Angel

by summerartist



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fanart, Fluff, M/M, Tenderness, arts and crafts, what more could you possibly desire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-12 16:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerartist/pseuds/summerartist
Summary: While Crowley sleeps for a long stint, a certain angel keeps a vigil while making art. (now with bonus visuals)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

The flat was simultaneously everything and nothing like Aziraphale had been expecting. It was cold and barren and hardly suitable to wait comfortably in. Aziraphale would have popped them back to his shop with a quick miracle if Crowley hadn’t insisted on using his own bed.

“Just check up on me if I’m gone too long.” Crowley had shrugged. “Water the plants if you think of it.”

The demon had offered him a spare key, which Aziraphale had taken with a grip more suited for scooping up a butterfly. The key was surprisingly sleek and modern looking.

Aziraphale gave a quick confirmation of compliance. Any more than that and the demon would have backed out. So, with access to Crowley’s flat, they had proceeded to the next step.

Crowley had settled in for a long sleep. The angel would soon let himself in to monitor his cycle. Crowley’s body had gone into a form of stasis, corporation becoming immune to sweat, hair growth, and bedsores. Touch though...that was something that they had always wondered about. Human bodies required contact to remain healthy and theoretically their corporations were not dissimilar.

There was still the question of what Aziraphale could do during his visits besides stroking the demon’s chilly brow. He usually read while the demon napped. While being a peaceful activity, the longer vigil would require something more to occupy his brain.

* * *

The first pursuit he tried was knitting and crochet. It had been on a whim and he did not pursue it for long. His hands felt clumsy and while he enjoyed counting out the elaborate stitch patterns, it was still somewhat removed from being an entirely cerebral activity. He ended up knitting several items for local charities.

Next, he sketched for a while. He copied illustrative works and created a few of his own. He had drawn a few things in the past and his precision went nearly unmatched in the human world. He understood the methods behind stylization though, and how it saved time whilst capturing the essence of things.

Crowley groaned in his sleep while Aziraphale had been sketching a cheeky little illustration of a duck. Aziraphale had quickly scooted his chair over and cupped the demon’s face, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb, unknowingly leaving a smudge of graphite.

“There there, dear boy. There there.”

Crowley had frowned, nudging his head into the direction of the touch and stilling. His corporation had taken several deep breaths before resuming a more natural rhythm.

Aziraphale took up talking after that. Something about it seemed to make the demon rest easier if a gentle hand combing through his hair had not had the desired effect.

His following art form had been a bit more daring. Pyrography did not necessitate much equipment and Aziraphale enjoyed the warmth and hand position required for using the burning tool. The different woods made the flat smell like a forest. He had initially worried that the scent of fire would rouse his unconscious charge, but Crowley remained peacefully oblivious.

Aziraphale made a plaque with a literary quote on it for his backroom. And then, in a rare indulgence, he had created a wood burning of a serpent. He abandoned it when it was nearly finished, already deeming it unsuitable as a gift.

“Are you comfortable?” Aziraphale asked the silent demon. “I’m afraid I’m making rather a mess of things.”

The yarn and wood scraps were confined to one corner for now, available should he decide to use them again.

“I’d give carving a go if I didn’t have to constantly miracle the shavings away. Perhaps something a bit more refined, hmm?”

Paper cutting had gone through centuries of stylistic changes. From scherenschnitte domestic scenes, to Georgian silhouettes, to paper celebratory banners, there was no limit to what one could do with paper and a sharp tool. Aziraphale was skilled with a tiny pair of scissors and he created several Georgian style portraits before switching to a folk art style. The careful clipping sounds lulled him.

Unfortunately, this was when his monitoring duties got a bit more exciting. Crowley became thoroughly chilled and his skin appeared waxen. Aziraphale tucked him in with several hot water bottles and slid a hot brick under the mattress. Color returned to Crowley’s features and Aziraphale mopped his face with a compress, just in case his sweat glands had been reactivated. Crowley did not budge in all this time, a mute and motionless demon where there had once been action and agility.

“Oh, I do hope you decide to stir soon. It gets frightfully ever so dull. Well, I shouldn’t complain. You’ve been wearing yourself out, you know,” Aziraphale chastised his companion.

It had been nearly two months now and the angel had tidied up his mess, tucking away the results in his backroom. He cleaned up all of the paper and wood scraps. Tried to, anyway. His paper cutting had been so fine he was still finding minuscule paper shards under the bed.

Fresco painting was out of the question in light of its daunting drying times and the complications of working with wet plaster. Glass blowing, metal working, and sculpture were likewise discarded as potential activities.

Aziraphale had pulled himself away from his caretaking duties to open up his shop and freshen up. He resolved to decide once he came back that evening.

* * *

“Angel!”

Oh dash it, Crowley had woken up alone. As the familiar voice reverberated through his shop, Aziraphale hoped that the demon would not be too upset. What he could read of Crowley’s features when he came into view told him very little about the demon’s mood.

“So _this_ is what you’ve been up to,” Crowley said softly.

Crowley had found Aziraphale in the backroom where items had been shifted around and his artwork was propped haphazardly against the walls.

“It’s good to see you,” Aziraphale said warmly. “Had a pleasant sleep?”

“Mm yeah. You didn’t have to watch me as much as you did, you know,” Crowley pointed out as he approached a small watercolor sketch of a duck pond. He delicately touched the frame and moved on to the next piece. It happened to be the panel of the unfinished serpent.

“Oh! Yes, I knew that. I still came back to have a cup of tea every now and again.” Aziraphale attempted to step in front of his woodburnings. “Now that you’re up and about, how about I store this away and we can go have lunch.”

“I think you should keep it like this,” Crowley said ponderously. “Reminds me of Leonardo’s workshop.”

Aziraphale remembered that Crowley had been almost grieved to hear of the artist’s passing.

“Wouldn’t really be proper. Vanity, you know,” said Aziraphale without conviction. “Though I might just keep a sketch or two.”

Crowley hummed and stroked the serpent panel with a reverent touch. “How about I take this one off your hands?”

“It’s not finished- ah-” Aziraphale dithered. The demon’s raised eyebrows made the angel cave. “Well alright, but the color doesn’t go with the rest of your décor.”

Crowley just shrugged and picked up the panel as if he was ready to run off with it lest Aziraphale change his mind.

Aziraphale did not comment as there were few things that Crowley treated possessively. Maybe there was something about it that spoke to him. Clutching his prize, Crowley led the way out of the backroom with Aziraphale following close behind him. Crowley paused and leaned over to speak softly in his ear.

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale was puzzled by his tone until he remembered that he had left the water bottles and a damp compress on the demon’s bedside table. Crowley had known that Aziraphale had taken care of him.

“Anytime, my dear boy. Anytime,” Aziraphale promised. His chest was feeling quite warm, tight almost.

Crowley looked like he understood.

The End.


	2. Bonus Silhouettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few paper cutting Georgian style silhouettes of Crowley made with little scissors.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave feedback.


End file.
